The fire crackles low, barely enough to warm the bones. Everyone else is asleep—what’s left of them, anyway.

Minho sits a few feet from the edge of the collapsed wall, elbows on his knees, watching the sky like it might finally give answers instead of just more heat and silence.

You step up beside him. Not quietly, not loudly. Just enough for him to know it’s you.

He doesn’t look up. Just says, low.

“Can’t sleep?”

You shake your head, settling beside him. Dust clings to everything. Skin. Soul. It’s quiet between you, but not empty. Never empty with him.

“I used to run the Maze just to see you.”

The words fall like something he’s carried too long. His voice is rough—not from emotion, but from holding it back for weeks. Maybe longer.

He still doesn’t look at you. Can’t.

“Didn’t matter what section I had. I’d cut corners. Push harder. Just to pass you on the south stretch. You were always sketching the maps in the dirt with your boot, acting like I wasn’t watching.”

You don’t answer. Can’t. The heat in your chest is sharper than the scorch outside.

He exhales. A laugh, bitter.

“Stupid, right? Runners aren’t supposed to get distracted.”

Still no eye contact.

But when your hand brushes his, just barely, he doesn’t pull away.

Not this time.